The Girl on the Cliff

by Lucinda Riley

  Although the family were not wealthy, their one hundred acres brought them a steady income. The farm itself provided for many of their needs, with milk, eggs, meat from the sheep and wool for their backs. Michael and Sean worked from dawn till dusk making sure the farm yielded its potential.

  Mary was aware from the looks on the faces of the other local families when they came around to be introduced to her, that she’d won herself a good catch.

  And now, thought Mary as she wiped her eyes roughly on her shawl, it was to be taken away from her. It was all very well Sean believing that he’d return to her safe and sound, but what if he didn’t?

  Mary sighed. She should have known it was all too good to be true. She had already handed in her notice at the Big House, and was to leave next month in preparation for her marriage. Mary wondered whether, under the new circumstances, this was still the right thing to be doing. If she slipped under the Ryans’ roof and waited until Sean returned from war, she’d have no independence or money of her own. If Sean didn’t return, the chances were she’d die an old maid under her dead fiancé’s roof.

  Mary stood up and turned toward Dunworley House. Even though Mrs. O’Flannery, the housekeeper, didn’t like her, she appreciated her hard work and there’d been a look of dismay in her eyes on the day she’d given her notice. Sebastian Lisle too, and his mother, had expressed their sadness that Mary was leaving.

  As she walked back up the cliff toward the house, Mary was sure she’d be able to keep her position for longer. At least, until Sean returned. Mary set her jaw as she walked into the kitchen. Even though she would be swallowing her pride to ask, and then see the gleam of pleasure at her misfortune enter the housekeeper’s eyes, Mary decided it was the lesser of the two evils.

  She’d been “owned” for most of her life and had finally escaped.

  She did not wish to go back to prison now.

  10

  After Mary had waved Sean off to war, gritting her teeth to keep her emotions in check, she gave herself a good talking to on the way up to Dunworley House and went back to work.

  The months passed, with news from the front filtered through to her via Sebastian Lisle, who had The Times delivered to him from England once a week. There was the occasional letter from Sean, who said he was already in France and had fought in a battle in a place called Mons. From his letters, he seemed in high spirits, enjoying the camaraderie of the other “Micks,” as the Irish Guards were known. But already there were fatalities in his battalion; he wrote of friends lost or wounded.

  Occasionally, Mary popped down to see the Ryans, but the sight of the half-finished house—untouched since Sean and the other young men of the village had left—upset her.

  She was in a holding bay, waiting for fate to decide her destiny.

  • • •

  Nine months on, and Sean’s letters had become less frequent. She wrote to him every week, asking him when he thought he might be having the leave he’d been promised. In his last letter, he’d mentioned he’d been shipped back to the Irish Guards’ London barracks for four days—not nearly enough time to make the trip all the way down to West Cork. Mary read in The Times that thousands of Allied soldiers had lost their lives in a place called Ypres.

  Sebastian Lisle had left Ireland five months ago; not to fight, on account of him suffering from asthma, but to help out in what he called the Foreign Office.

  A pall fell over Dunworley House; with only Evelyn Lisle to care for and no guests, there was little for the staff of three to do. The tweeny was dismissed, which meant Mary took on her tasks too. And, along with every soul across Europe, Mary held her breath and waited.

  Eighteen months on, Sebastian Lisle came home. It was a pleasure to at least have someone to serve at table; Evelyn roused herself from her torpor and came downstairs to eat in the dining room with her son. Two days later, Mary was summoned to Sebastian’s study.

  “You’d be wanting to see me, sir?” Mary said as she entered.

  “Yes.” Sebastian’s watery blue eyes seemed to have sunk further into their sockets; he looked haggard and drawn, double his real age. His red hair was receding, and Mary thought that breeding did not necessarily bless you with looks. “There’s a position of housemaid available at our London home. I have suggested you for it, Mary. How would you feel about that?”

  Mary looked at him, astonished. “Me? Go to London?”

  “Yes. Now I’m back here, we can manage with Mrs. O’Flannery and a daily from the village. Whereas in London, what with the war effort and more girls going into the munitions factories and taking over the men’s jobs driving the buses, et cetera, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find household staff. My brother asked me if I could find someone here in Ireland, and you are the obvious choice.”

  “London . . .” Mary breathed. That was where Sean’s barracks were. Perhaps next time he got some leave from France, she’d be able to meet him. Besides, it was an adventure and an opportunity she knew she must grasp.

  “I’m thinking that might be grand, sir. Would my duties be similar to here?”

  “More or less, yes. It’s a far larger house than this, and used to have a staff of twenty. We are now down to ten and everyone is mucking in. You’ll be given a smart uniform, a room shared with one other maid and a salary of thirty shillings a month. Would that suit you?”

  “Well now, I think it might, sir, yes.”

  “Jolly good, Mary. Please let me know as soon as you’ve decided and I’ll arrange your passage to England.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that, so.”

  • • •

  A few days later, Mary went down the hill to see Sean’s parents and tell them of her decision. Not surprisingly, they weren’t keen on their son’s fiancée leaving Ireland’s shores while he was away.

  “But, Bridget,” Mary comforted as she sipped tea with her in the kitchen, “I’d want to be going so that maybe I can see Sean when he next gets leave.”

  “To be sure, that’s all well and good, but my cousin’s daughter went off to London only last year. They don’t like Irish maids there, so she said. They’ll be looking down on you, like all the English do with the Irish,” Bridget sniffed.

  “As if I’d care about that! I’ll put them right, never you mind.” Unperturbed, Mary smiled, unable to keep the glint of excitement out of her eyes.

  “Just promise me, Mary, when the war is ended, you’ll be coming back home here to your man, won’t you?” Bridget entreated.

  “You know there is nowhere else I’d rather be than by Sean’s side. But while I can be doing something useful as I wait for him, and earn a few more shillings to put away for our future, I’d be thinking it was a good plan.”

  “Well now, you take care of yourself in that heathen city.” Bridget shuddered at the thought of it.

  “Don’t you worry, I will, I swear.”

  • • •

  Mary felt not a glimmer of fear as she embarked on her long journey. First, up to Dublin, and across on the boat to Liverpool, then down south on an overcrowded train. It came to a halt in a vast station. She hauled her valise up the platform and looked around her. She’d been told she was to be met by someone who would be holding up her name. She gazed through the sea of khaki, engaged in sorrowful good-byes or happy hellos, and finally spotted a man in a smart uniform, holding a piece of card with her name on it.

  “Hello there,” she smiled as she walked up to him. “I’m Mary Benedict.”

  The man nodded solemnly. “Follow me, please.”

  Outside, the man motioned for her to get into the back of the gleaming black car. She did so, marveling at the soft leather on the seat. As they set off, Mary felt like a princess. She had never been in a car before.

  She gazed out of the windows at the gas lamps above her—like oversized sherbet-lemons suspended on big sticks—at the crowds of people flowing along the pavements and the tall buildings that lined them. Trams moved ceaselessly up and down the ce
nter of the streets. And the women, she noticed, were wearing skirts that showed their ankles. They drove along a wide river, but it was too dark to see much. Then the chauffeur turned right, away from the river, and finally into a large square, lined on each side with enormous white houses. They drove along a narrow mews, where he parked the car and indicated for her to step out.

  “This way please,” he said as Mary followed him along the mews. “This is the servants’ entrance to Cadogan House, and the one you will always use.” He led her down the flight of steps and opened the door into a small lobby.

  Another door led to a low-ceilinged but warm kitchen, in the center of which was a table occupied by a number of people, all dressed in smart uniforms.

  “Your new parlormaid is here, Mrs. C,” said the chauffeur, nodding to a large woman sitting at the head of the table.

  “Come here where I can see you.” The woman beckoned her over, surveying Mary as she did so.

  “Hello, ma’am.” Mary curtsied. “I’m Mary Benedict.”

  “And I’m Mrs. Carruthers, the housekeeper.” The woman finished her inspection and nodded. “Well, at least you look healthy enough, which is more than I can say for the last Irish maid we had here. She was dead of bronchitis within a week. Wasn’t she, Mr. Smith?” She turned to the balding man sitting next to her and broke into a hearty chuckle, her ample bosom heaving as she did so.

  “I believe I’m healthy, ma’am,” answered Mary. “In fact, I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life.”

  “Well, that’s a start, I suppose,” Mrs. Carruthers agreed.

  Mrs. Carruthers spoke English in a strange accent. Mary strained to understand what she was saying.

  “I suppose you’ll be hungry. You Irish always are.” She pointed to a seat at the end of the table. “Take off your bonnet and your coat and sit down. Teresa, get Mary a plate of stew.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Carruthers.” A young woman wearing a mobcap and brown dress rose immediately from the table. Mary removed her hat, gloves, coat and shawl and was directed to hang them in the lobby. She sat down next to a girl dressed in a maid’s uniform.

  “So, Mary, I suppose you can’t read and write? Your kind usually can’t. It makes life so much more difficult for me,” sighed Mrs. Carruthers.

  “Oh yes, ma’am, I can.” Mary nodded as a plate of stew was put in front of her. “I used to teach the small ones at my convent school.”

  “School, is it?” Mrs. Carruthers smirked. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be teaching me to lay the table next!”

  The others around her laughed dutifully. Mary determinedly ignored the jibe and gulped back her stew silently, hungry from her long journey.

  “You’ve been working for Mr. Lisle’s brother at his house in Ireland, so I hear,” continued Mrs. Carruthers.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know how they go on there, but I think you might find things a bit different here in London. Mr. Sebastian Lisle tells me you know how to serve at table, is that true?”

  “I’d be thinking I do, so,” agreed Mary. “But I’m sure you’re right. Things will be different here.”

  “You’re to share with Nancy, our upstairs maid.” Mrs. Carruthers indicated the girl sitting next to Mary. “Breakfast at five thirty prompt; if you’re five minutes late, it won’t be saved for you, understand?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Your uniform’s laid out on your bed. And make sure your pinny is clean. Mr. Lisle is very particular about spotless uniforms.”

  “Pinny?” Inquired Mary.

  “Your apron, girl.” Mrs. Carruthers raised her eyebrows. “After breakfast tomorrow morning, I’ll inform you of your duties. When Mr. Lisle is in residence, this is a busy household. He’s a very important man and he likes things just so. Luckily for you, he’s away at the moment, but we don’t let our standards slip, do we?”

  Those at the table nodded in agreement and began to rise from it.

  “Nancy, take Mary up to her room.”

  “Yes, Mrs. C,” the girl next to her said dutifully. “Follow me,” she said to Mary.

  A few minutes later, Mary was hauling her valise up the steps and into a vast hallway. A huge chandelier hung in the stairwell, full of electric lightbulbs. They climbed another three flights of stairs until they arrived on the attic floor. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! This house! ’Tis the size of a palace!” she exclaimed.

  “That one’s yours,” said Nancy, leading her into a room that housed two beds and not much else. She pointed to a bed by the window. “You’re last in, so you get the draught.”

  “Thank you.” Mary smiled wryly and dumped her valise onto her bed.

  “We take it in turns to get hot water for the washbasin, and there’s a pot under the bed for the other,” indicated Nancy, sitting down on her own bed and surveying Mary. “You’re pretty, you are. How come you don’t have that red hair that all you Irish have?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure,” Mary replied, unpacking her meager items of clothing and stowing them in the drawer by the bed. “But not all of us have it, you know.”

  “All the ones I’ve met have. No, you’ve got lovely blue eyes and fair hair. Do you put a bottle on it?”

  “You mean, do I dye it?” Mary chuckled and shook her head. “You wouldn’t be getting that kind of thing where I’m from. We’re still waiting for the electricity to come to our part of the world.”

  “Blimey,” Nancy giggled, “couldn’t imagine what it’s like to live without it no more, though when I was a little’un, we didn’t have none. That’s why I got so many brothers and sisters!” she cackled. “You got a young man?”

  “Yes, but he’s away off fighting Jerry, and I haven’t seen him for eighteen months.”

  “There’s always more where he came from, you know”—Nancy grinned—“ ’specially here in London.”

  “Well, I’d not be interested in any other fellow. There won’t be anyone else for me,” Mary replied staunchly.

  “You wait till you’ve been living here a few months, then we’ll see. There’s a lotta lonely soldier boys here in the city on leave, looking for a pretty girl to spend their wages on, you mark my words.” Nancy began to undress, her stays barely covering a magnificent set of breasts and Rubenesque hips. As she let down her long blond hair, she resembled a ripe cherub. “If we get our days off together, I’ll take you out and show you the sights. There’s plenty to keep you occupied here in the Smoke, that’s for sure.”

  “So, what are the master and mistress like?” Mary asked as she climbed into bed.

  “Oh, we have no mistress yet. Mr. Lisle lives alone, at least when he’s here. No lady seems to have taken his fancy. Or maybe he hasn’t taken theirs!” Nancy chuckled.

  “Well now, to be sure, neither has his brother Sebastian married,” said Mary, pulling the thin blanket tighter around her, understanding why the bed she was in was not favored.

  “Mrs. Carruthers says the master might be a spy,” said Nancy. “Whatever it is he does is important. He entertains lots of famous people for dinner here. Once we even had Lloyd George himself! Can you imagine, the British Prime Minister sitting in our dining room?”

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God! You mean I might have to serve him at table?” Mary’s eyes were round with horror.

  “The way I always think of it when we have someone famous to the house, and I see ’em with my very own eyes, is that they all have to use the lavvy. So, I just imagine them sitting on that and then I’m not frightened any more.”

  Mary giggled and warmed to Nancy. “How long have you been in service?” she inquired.

  “Since I were eleven, when my ma sent me to be a pot washer. Now that were hard, emptying all them slops.” Nancy shuddered. “Whether you’re a lady or a skivvy, yer piss and shit smells the same.”

  Mary’s eyes were beginning to close, the apprehension and excitement of coming to London getting the better of her. As she drifted into sleep, Nancy continued to talk, but
Mary listened no more.

  11

  In the first few weeks, life at Cadogan House was full of wonder for Mary. The house was run on a grand scale, even when there was no master in residence. She could not help but gape at the vast, beautiful rooms, their huge windows draped in thick damask curtains, the finely hewn furniture and the enormous fireplaces with elegant mirrors atop them.

  Apart from the ongoing jokes about her Irishness, Mary found the other servants a friendly bunch. Nancy proved to be a fine guide to London, having lived in the city for all of her life. She took Mary on trams to Piccadilly Circus to eat hot chestnuts under the statue of Eros, and up the Mall to look at Buckingham Palace. They had tea and buns in Lyons Corner House, where a couple of young soldiers “gave them the eye,” as Nancy put it. Nancy was all for giving it back, but Mary would have none of it.

  Mary loved her new and exciting world. The bright lights and hubbub of London made it hard to remember this was a country at war. So far, the British mainland had remained untouched and, apart from the surprising sight of women driving the trams and buses and serving behind counters in shops, the city had remained unchanged.

  That was until the zeppelins came.

  Mary heard the huge explosion in the middle of the night, and woke up with the rest of the city to the news that the Germans had bombed a site in the East End, killing two hundred people. Suddenly, London became a hive of activity, with barrage balloons hanging above the skyline, the shadowy profiles of machine guns sitting on the tops of tall buildings and preparations for further attacks taking place in the cellars of every house.

  • • •

  During the summer of 1917, when Mary had been in London more than a year, the air-raid sirens rang out with regularity. The staff would scuttle down to the cellar to eat dry biscuits and play cards, while the sounds of the guns rattled above them. Mrs. Carruthers sat on her wooden chair, brought down from the kitchen, and take surreptitious swigs from her hip flask to steady her nerves. Yet even during the worst moments, where it seemed a zeppelin must be directly overhead and Mary watched the fear on the candlelit faces around her, she knew little of her own. She felt . . . invincible—as though the horror of what was happening could not touch her.